


Full Circle

by ead13



Series: Carta Thug, Surfacer Trash, and/or Andraste's Herald [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blackwall left for atonement by this point, F/M, Grand Tourney, Post Corypheus, Prompt Fill, comissioner wanted circus performers so there's that too..., hidden identity, not sure how the tournament works but I tried, paying it forward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 01:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ead13/pseuds/ead13
Summary: The Inner Circle finally gets a vacation, and the destination is Markham, where the Grand Tourney is underway. Cadash is convinced the whole thing is just going to make her miss Thom, but to her surprise a non-descript pair of combatants steal the show...





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> For prompt fill: Grand Tourney in Markham: Inquisition road trip!!! Bonus points: circus performers!
> 
> I was excited to take this one, because it just lends itself too perfectly to my OTP. Headcannon now formed.

Malika could hardly believe the entire inner circle was standing together at the city gates of Markham, right in the middle of the hustle and bustle that came with a festival. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine were back at Skyhold making sure the Inquisition didn’t fall to pieces during their absence, but they’d allowed all of their best warriors leave in order to celebrate the Grand Tourney of the Free Marches. Was it just her, or were her advisors lengthening her leash a bit since they’d put a stop to Corypheus? As well they should! She’d done more than enough to earn a vacation, even if only for a few days. Besides, while she never had a real home to speak of nor many positive memories tied to the place, there was something nostalgic about being back in the Free Marches after all this time.

Malika was not the only one excited to take a break. 

Cassandra was eager to see some action while acting as a spectator for once, and Malika could already tell she’d be providing the commentary during the tournament. Even as they made their way into the city, she was explaining that Nevarra had hosted the Tourney in the recent past; the participants were exemplary and much could be learned from studying their technique. 

Cole was curious about everything around him, and if he hadn’t been growing steadily more human, the Inquisitor would worry his head would explode from all the loud thoughts surrounding him. Varric was keeping an eye on him as he so often did. Every now and then, the sound of “Hey, kid!” cut through the din, and Cole would scurry back to his side, attempting to explain something in his typical cryptic way. Varric’s responses were distracted, as he simultaneously walked, responded, and filled out paperwork. The dwarf had been following the contest for years and seemed more interested in placing wagers than simple observation. 

Sera was fairly giddy at the prospect of limitless sweets and all the colorful street performers that flocked to the city. As one who had grown up in Denerim and spent a long time in Val Royeaux, she’d missed this climate since her stay at isolated Haven and then Skyhold. The appeal of the actual martial combat seemed lost on her. 

It was not lost on the Iron Bull, who was currently plowing a path through the crowded streets with his hulking frame and enduring Dorian’s complaints about the lack of any kind of magic in these battles. The words ‘brutes’ and ‘savages’ popped up often. Bull just chuckled, knowing full well that HE was a savage brute and Dorian actually loved it, and then he reminded the mage how many ‘Vints’ participated in this ‘crude display’. 

Vivienne, for her part, would be dismissing herself as soon as they reached the arena to meet and greet the who’s who of Thedas that inevitably attended such functions. Performances and spectacles were rarely about the event at hand, and more so a matter of who you could be seen with. At any rate, playing THE Game was vastly more entertaining to a socialite like Vivenne than a bunch of fighters brandishing swords.

That left only two gaping holes in her party. Solas hadn’t been seen since Corypheus fell. While this stung a bit given their late-blooming friendship, she really wasn’t surprised that he bailed as soon as his mission was over. Who knew what the Chantry would do to him now that they had time to focus on apostates? It was a shame, as he’d mentioned his fascination with old battlefields and the memories they showed him. He’d also mentioned to Blackwall long before the truth came out that they shared a certain battle experience. As contrary to his outward nature as it might seem, Solas would have probably enjoyed watching the Grand Tourney.

And the person who had the single greatest connection to this event, one of the finest warriors she had ever known, was not with her either. Unlike Solas, that truly affected her ability to enjoy herself. Thom had left not long before, swearing to find the rest of his men and make amends. She’d hoped against hope she could contact him once she found out about their trip; perhaps he would be able to meet her there, especially given that one of his stops was to visit his parents in Markham. There was never any response back. As much as she loved her friends, she was bitterly upset that she couldn’t watch the Tourney at his side. Experiencing it at with him would help her to understand him better. He would have told her how everything worked, and explained what it had been like all those years ago when he was a young man. She was not going to stop thinking about him all day, she knew that for certain.

Once the entourage arrived at the tournament grounds, they were ushered with much pomp and circumstance to a special box, reserved for the heroes of Thedas. Unlike the general population, who sat on hard wooden benches or nothing but the very ground, they had cushioned chairs. While others could buy food and drink from wandering vendors, a table had already been spread with meats and cheeses and pastries, accompanied by fine wines and brandies. Well, it was nice to see that all her efforts had earned her SOMETHING. Malika noticed that Sera’s eyes immediately widened in glee, and she was already scanning her surroundings before stuffing a half-dozen pastries in her pockets. Vivienne cast a disparaging eyeroll before vacating the box in search of more cultured company among the nobles.  
The rest of them settled down into their seats. “How long before it starts?” Malika inquired, reaching for the bottle of brandy. Maybe the alcohol would take the edge off the longing she felt, which was only growing as she watched the suited-up men and women on the sidelines getting their armor polished by personal attendants. Fops. You only needed to polish armor if you wanted to look showy! It wasn’t like any of them had gotten the blood of their enemies on it… Had any of them ever seen actual battle? Thom could easily knock them on their arses, she was sure of it.

“It shouldn’t be long now. They’ve already taken to the sidelines and are making final preparations,” Cassandra announced. “You can see the way the serious ones take practice swings with the tournament-issued blunted blades to get warmed up.”

“Inquisitor, what’s the hurry? We have such lovely accompaniment in the meantime,” Dorian smirked while sipping the chalice of wine he’d already poured for himself.

The companions perked their ears for the first time, and finally they realized that the bard entertaining the audience was performing that rousing hit that had taken the taverns across Thedas by storm: Sera was Never. Cassandra of all people let out the most devious cackle. “Indeed. This bard has exquisite taste.”

“Ugh!” Sera jumped to her feet. “I’m fricking right here!”

“Fame’s hard to handle,” Bull grinned as he settled back into his chair beside Dorian. He was lucky the organizers had thought to find one that would support his bulk.

“Well I’m out!” The rogue swiftly turned on her heels and rushed from the box.

“Wait, where are you-”

“Circus performers. Way more fun than bards that sing about people without their permission.” With that, she was gone, melting into the crowd.

Malika burst into genuine laughter. “I wish I could say I bribed the bard to torment her, but I’ll take it as coincidence.”

“Red Jennies are supposed to be hidden, sneaky, strike from the shadows. A song, loud and joyful, sends the wrong message,” Cole offered from his place next to Varric.

Before Varric could respond, a runner approached the front of the box with a paper clutched in his hand. “Master Tethras?”

“Speaking.”

“There have been a few changes to the roster. We wished to make this known to our patrons in case they would like to change their wagers.”

“Ah, good man. Let’s see. Surely can’t be anyone too skilled if they are joining at the last minute.” Varric reached out to grab the new roster, with the additions penned in on the bottom. If anyone had been paying attention, they’d have noticed even the unflappable storyteller blink in surprise. “You know what? I take back what I said. I also take back my wager. I’m putting all my money on this guy.” He pointed to a name scrawled on the bottom, and the runner nodded and made a note.

“Very good, serah. I shall make sure this gets relayed.”

“See that you do. I’m quite confident about this one.” The messenger nodded again and departed.

Malika looked at him curiously. “Gambling?”

“What can I say, I like to live on the edge,” Varric grinned. “Adds to the excitement.”

At that moment, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, announcing the start of the tournament. The audience began to shush each other, and the participants on the field lined up under the banners corresponding to their nation. Orlesians, Fereldans, and Marchers made up the vast majority, each with a distinct style of armor and shields bearing the appropriate heraldry for families or cities. There were also a handful of Nevarrans, Tevinters and Anderfels, but what they lacked in quantity they seemed to make up for in ferocity.

“So, they all just stand in the ring and go nuts as soon as they give the signal?” Malika leaned in her chair to mutter to Cassandra. It was hard to imagine the chaos that would ensue, and she had participated in her fair share of battles.

“Yes. It is an old tradition with simple rules. Any warrior who falls or exits the ring is eliminated. Once the field has cleared to the top ten or so, they add another rule to keep things moving: take a blow to the back and you are out. The last warrior standing is the winner. Regrettably, that does not always mean that the best warrior wins. History has shown that perceived favorites are often ganged up on because of the threat they pose to the competition. It can end up being just as much a game of alliances.” Her disgusted snort made clear her opinion on that. 

Malika couldn’t help but remember Thom’s tale of his time here, of how he ended up the winner despite being so young and inexperienced and lacking in any kind of technique. His alliance with the chevalier had put him in that spot, not his skill. “That does seem to detract from the competition. I was hoping to see action, not politics.”

“That’s not far from the truth, as I see it. Often times, those representing the same country band together against rivals until none remain or they are all eliminated,” Cassandra continued, reclining in her chair as her eyes followed the master of ceremonies. “In any case, you will see both skill and strategy play out. It will not bore you, that I can promise.”

“Good to hear.” Malika trailed off as the master of ceremonies began his speech. She’d heard far too many in her time as Inquisitor, and spent the entire duration ignoring his words and studying the different warriors. They were largely sword-wielders, both one and two handed, though a few maces and battleaxes were also accounted for. If there were elves involved, it was impossible to tell under the armor. However, there were clearly a few dwarves. They’d have the advantage, she realized, if the goal was to not be knocked over. Low center of gravity, shorter legs to try and knock out from under them, powerful builds…

“Have any dwarves ever won?” she whispered.

“Not that I recall. I don’t doubt they could, but they are so outnumbered the odds are not in their favor. There have been a few non-conventional champions. A woman from the Anderfels won twice, and not long ago an Avvar man came from the south to compete and won the whole thing. If you are not agile, you’d have to have the weight to hold your ground against the assault. Perhaps that is where dwarves would struggle despite their seeming advantages?” Cassandra mused. Malika could just see the strategy playing in her head.

“Hmph, if they had the ‘behind the back’ rule for the entire thing, I’d do just fine.”

“Indeed, but you’d have to hope you don’t take a blow. These men and women have power in spades. They are not your average ruffians or brainless creatures.”

Frowning, Malika slouched in her chair and reached for her brandy. That was why she always had Thom guarding her back. He always kept her from taking any blows. She hoped that wherever he was he was enduring the blows directed at HIM. Maker knew there’d be plenty if he was going around trying to apologize to everyone he betrayed.

Suddenly, everyone on the sidelines took their positions in the ring. They must have made the signal to prepare while she was deep in thought. Despite being in the same area, it was clear that Cassandra had spoken the truth; like colors and armors stood together, prepared to face the outsiders before turning on each other. There was one exception.

“You don’t see that every day,” Bull observed, popping a grape into his mouth. “Looks like some Marcher and a Ferelden kid are forming an alliance.”

“Isn’t that kind of a lousy plan?” Dorian sniffed. “Kind of like painting a target on yourselves, standing out like that. And no group to protect you in the initial stages?”

“Aww, look guys, Dorian started caring about melees!” Bull ribbed, nudging the Tevinter playfully.

While Dorian scowled, Varric hummed thoughtfully. “Or, they might float on the peripheral because everyone will write them off as not being a threat.”

“It’s like Varric and me. He doesn’t know what to do, how to be. Why did he come here? The nerves gnaw at his stomach, but someone who knows stands behind him, guiding him. This is okay, he can learn from this. And the other can grow from this.” Cole was staring intently on the smaller figure of the pair until the last sentence when his eyes were drawn to the Marcher.

Before anyone could question, the signal horn sounded and brought the field to life. Waves of warriors clashed almost immediately, and Malika could only scoff. Rushing in was a fool’s maneuver unless you hoped to catch a single enemy off guard. This was not the time nor place, and many of the warriors learned this the hard way as they were swatted down in their haste. Despite the majority of the action taking place in the center, Malika found her eyes drifting to the pair that had sparked the Inquisition’s imagination. True to Varric’s prediction, they stayed out of the fray for the time being, back to back to avoid being caught unaware and to lessen the chances of falling backward. The few opportunists who tried to take advantage of the lone pair realized too late the folly of pushing a staunch defense which had time to entrench itself. Not surprisingly, the Marcher took the majority of the attacks, giving the boy the more out-of-reach angle.

A thought hit her like a flash of lightning, illuminating and jolting her. That stance. She’d seen it time and time again, even fought back to back as a part of the tactic. Frantically, her eyes scanned the armor for a sign, but it was generic, non-descript armor. It bore no symbols of affiliation, and looked almost second-hand. The wearer either had no money for decent armor or was trying to hide their identity, and he was too skilled for cheap armor.

She was conflicted in her theory until the boy took a blow, knocking him back against his steadfast companion. Had he not been there, the boy would have fallen, no question. “You’re not hiding, you’re holding,” Cole whispered, but even from two seats away she could hear. And she knew. Those were the words she’d heard the day she met him, when she’d found him training the militia from the Crossroads. Now they were the instructions given to a raw fighter thrown into the chaos for the first time. Even from her seat, she could see the boy’s grip tighten on his shield as he braced for the next blow. He held it off successfully, and before either attacker or defender could think of the next move, Thom Rainier abandoned his position, certain the boy was steady, and landed a blow to the unexpecting assailant’s right shoulder that sent him flying back onto his rear. It was less of a forceful push and more of a suggestion of direction, taking advantage of the enemy’s loss of equilibrium after being repelled by the shield of his ally. Without wasting another moment he returned to his original position, standing at the ready.

She wanted to scream his name, determined as she was that it was him, and cheer him on as his biggest supporter, but she knew once his identity was revealed they would all swarm on him. She also wanted to jump down onto the battlefield and fight at his side, but this was between him and the boy, she knew that. For the first time since Lake Luthias, she’d have to watch him fight on his own. The pressure was unbearable, so she poured herself another glass of brandy and tried not to look too interested. All the same, she felt Varric’s keen eyes upon her. Smug bastard probably knew already, didn’t he? When she challenged his gaze with one of her own, she saw the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Definitely. Probably was the reason he changed his bets…

“I don’t know how you bet, Varric, but I think I know who I’d go for.”

“Really? Do tell, Inquisitor…” he smiled wickedly, folding his hands.

She nearly said the Marcher taking all comers, but a memory stirred of a story he’d once told her one bright afternoon while sitting in the stables, and she suddenly knew better. “The Ferelden kid taking all comers.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That’s…an unusual pick. And pray tell, why not someone who, I don’t know, does more of the work?”

Malika looked down at her glass with a small smile. “I may know something you don’t, Mr. I’ve-Got-A-Spy-Network.”

“Well, I hope you are wrong, because my money is definitely not on the kid.” Varric said it good-naturedly, but she had years of experience reading people; the tension in his shoulders revealed that she had just made him doubt his wager very much.

It took a great while, but gradually the herd thinned out. The impulsive were quickly struck down, and they were soon followed those with poor judgement and stamina. It was obvious who the seasoned warriors were. All the while, the duo stood strong and deflected all who challenged them. Some withdrew to regroup, to wait for a weakness, and picked new targets. Others made mistakes that cost them to the Marcher’s sword and shield. Once in a while, a few were even caught off guard by a shockingly competent blow from the boy whom they had written off.

The final ten, besides the pair, were a Nevarran, two Fereldans, two Marchers and three Orlesians. The Nevarran who stood alone was quickly picked off, the work of politics. The poor fellow could not defend against so many others. However, when they went for the kill, the partnership did something no one expected: they broke rank and launched a surprise assault. It was still a conservative attack, with each landing the back blow to only one man before regrouping, but they successfully destroyed the Orlesian block of resistance by leaving only one standing. 

Now all eyes were on them, and judging by the menacing stances, the remaining fighters had lost all patience for these opportunists. Malika could see even from her spot in the stands the way they nodded to each other, temporarily forgoing their national ties to fight a common foe. She felt uncharacteristically nervous by the change in the air, and while her face remained passive, she gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles went white.

“My, you seem particularly invested in the finale Inquisitor,” Cassandra remarked, casting a side-long glance. “Could it be you favor one of the strange alliance members? They’ve hardly shown themselves to be valiant in the ring. In fact, I’m certain the boy would have been taken out in the first stages.”

“The alliance may look like a coward’s way out, but in battle, the goal is to outlast the enemy. They’ve done that despite how outnumbered they were,” Malika countered pointedly. “It is practical if not showy.”

“Hmm, you always were the practical sort.” A year ago, Malika would have read that as a barb, digging at her lack of ideals in favor of survival, but after getting to know Cassandra, she understood it as an observation and nothing more. “Still, if they aren’t able to fight head on at this point, it won’t win them anything. You can’t deny that.”

“No, I can’t…” She watched as the Marcher leaned back to whisper something to his partner, wishing desperately she could hear what strategy he planned to get out of this. Was there any getting out of this? The enemy had fanned out into an arc, clearly determined to tackle the Marcher head on and leave the boy for an afterthought. Did they see the way the Marcher braced himself, counting heartbeats before making his move? Patience, patience…

Then he snapped like a taut bowstring, and the roar of his battlecry was so unexpected that he was able to stun them for just a fraction of a second. That was enough. With the boy following urgently behind, the Marcher plowed into the furthest fighter to the right, knocking the Ferelden over. They’d failed to perceive his power due to his careful tactics. Fools! Then there were four.

He gave them no time to regroup. Taking on the next in line, they locked blades. There wouldn’t be time for an extended duel once the others gathered their wits about them, so he gave his all, each blow ringing against the wooden shield until it cracked. This seemingly left the enemy Marcher’s arm numb, because the next blow knocked the shield to the side and caught him on the upswing, sending him flying. All of this transpired in a matter of seconds. Three left.

“Serpent!” The bellow of the veteran could be heard throughout the stadium, but only those in the Inquisition knew what the nonsensical utterance could mean. The eyes of the party that had been darting between the combatants and Malika’s reactions widened in understanding, though only Cassandra and Dorian had the added shock of the revelation (Malika assumed Bull’s Ben Hassereth training had sufficiently tipped him off by this point). They’d been in the squad with Malika and Thom. They’d heard him shout that code word above the din of combat, a strategy the enemy would not be able to decipher. He’d hold off the assault while his partner would come in from behind and give a fatal blow to the unsuspecting foe. They were the only ones who watched the kid slink around the melee, and while his teammate’s legs grew shaky from enduring the strikes raining down, he gave a strike of his own, ending Ferelden’s chances. The enemy Marcher couldn’t help his reaction, frustration eating at his good sense, and when he turned his back for a split second to retaliate, the veteran knocked back the Orlesian and struck him in the back. One left.

The Orlesian retreated to collect his wits and catch his breath, while the other two did the same. Once more the boy received counsel from his elder, and Malika could read the surprise in his body language. With a nod, he withdrew to the side, leaving the apparent chevalier to square off one-on-one with Thom. The crowd roared in approval for this turn of events. At last, a proper duel! Now THAT was a finale!

Malika should have felt confident. She knew his strength better than anyone, knew his will was unbreakable once he was resolved. However, she couldn’t ignore the way he was still panting after going all out, taking shaky steps towards his foe, who had seemed to regain his breath and come out just as strong as he had started. What if it didn’t matter how skilled Thom was? What if his advancing age just couldn’t compete against a younger man when all his experienced strategies fell away? The thought of seeing him fall, even in this frivolous tournament, made her nauseous. 

“Think our big oaf can take him?” Dorian mused, without any hint of disdain. He’d apparently accepted the Marcher’s identity without question.

“If he’d kept the kid as insurance, he might have stood a chance,” Bull muttered, taking a long swig of ale.

“I disagree. His attention would have been divided if he had to worry about keeping the boy protected. Though why he cares I cannot fathom.” Cassandra wrinkled her nose. “Is this just his self-sacrificing nature on a never-ending quest for redemption? There’s no point to it!”

“He needs to do this.” Cole’s voice was soft, nearly lost in the explosion of sound from the crowd, but its message cut through to Malika’s ears. “He needs to earn what was given.”

“What was given?” Varric pressed, but the boy said no more. Malika knew though. Once upon a time, Thom had been handed a victory without earning it. This time, he would. He would prove that the old chevalier who had taken him under his wing was justified. But if that was true, did he really need to win to prove it?

She didn’t have time to reach a conclusion. The duelists were off, having abandoned circling around for action. Blade met blade, shield locked with shield, each trying to outmaneuver and throw his opponent off balance. For each attempt by the Orlesian, Thom countered like the perfect reflection. He knew the techniques now, after all these years, and had mastered them. Time in the Orlesian army had seen to that. This time, he was landing blows of his own, clearly understanding full well that he would not be wearing down this particular foe before he himself wore out. These too were predicted and blocked by a very capable opponent.

Then, the unthinkable happened. The Orlesian pushed him back, and instead of trying to capitalize, he rushed away from him and towards the boy. Apparently he didn’t give a damn about honor.  
Whether experience or youth would have won out in a proper duel, no one would ever know, because something that had never been seen in all the years of Grand Tourneys occurred. The chevalier had expected the roar of anger even though the protective nature of the Marcher baffled him. What he didn’t expect was to feel something hit him square in the back, knocking him off balance. It was the Marcher’s shield, ripped from his arm and flung at him full force. And the words that were roared? “Goooooooo!”

And the boy had obeyed. Though the whole situation was bizarre, the cry of his companion roused him to action. He blocked the flailing sword-arm of the confused chevalier and came around to deliver the blow to his back that ended his time in the ring.

The audience was stunned into silence. A warrior giving up his own means of protection to aid another? What kind of tournament was this? And talk about an unconventional tactic! As the buzz of bewilderment spread like wildfire through the audience, Malika burst into a huge smile. That idiot had gambled and lost. Picking on the person Thom had sworn to protect was like adding fuel to a fire. And desperately tossing his shield in a last-ditch effort to protect his ally? What a Thom-like thing to do! This truly was a fitting conclusion.

“So…now what?” Bull grunted, leaning forward in his seat. Right, this wasn’t the conclusion yet. 

“Surely he won’t just throw the competition. They’d boo him out of the arena!” was Dorian’s insistent response. Still, she knew from the way he stared intently that Dorian was unconvinced of his own statement.

She watched with baited breath, waiting for him to take a knee the way his predecessor had done. He surprised her by instead approaching the boy, sword still drawn. Words were exchanged, words between only the two of them. It was hard to imagine what they were, given how Thom’s sword floated behind the boy’s back, a warning of what could come if he wished it. At this close proximity, there was no way the whelp of a lad could manage to knock him over even if he had in mind to turn on him. At last, there was a nod. The boy dropped his sword, with Thom stepping resolutely on it, and then he planted his own in the ground. They shook hands. Then, Thom turned and walked calmly out of the ring. The Grand Tourney had come to an end.

Once again, the audience was stunned into silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…the winner?” And there he stood, blushing and scratching his head, the center of all attention. 

And there was Varric, tugging at his hair in frustration. “Cadash, you KNEW this would happen! Why?! I’m out a lot of money even though he WAS the winner in everything but technicality!”

“Ask him to tell you the story,” Cadash beamed serenely. “I can assure you, everything has come full circle.”

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

She didn’t stay for the award ceremony, though she certainly felt pity for the boy. Even though he was now in possession of a large sum of money, there would be much talk about how he’d been gifted the title, and probably no small amount of disdain. Had it been that way for Thom? According to his accounts, he’d been so full of himself that he either hadn’t noticed or cared, with his eyes cast resolutely on the prize instead of the prestige.

Of course, Thom was the reason she had to leave. She had to see him. She had to speak to him. It wasn’t in her nature to get emotional, far from it, but seeing his actions in the ring left her heart overflowing with so many different feelings, pressing against her chest like a dam about to burst. She had no idea how to deal with any of them. No one got to see her that way except for him, especially not when he was the cause.

The streets outside the arena were still mostly empty. She’d tried to get to the side of the arena where she’d seen him make his dramatic exit, a part of her bracing itself for disappointment should he have left the city immediately to avoid attention. That wouldn’t be fair! He had to know she was there, watching from the Inquisition’s box, understanding his actions in a way no one else could! Still, as the rogue slunk through the side-streets and alleyways she’d memorized like the back of her hand from the Carta days of her youth, each face she found was not his.

“Thom!” she finally called in desperation. The name echoed off of brick walls until it dissipated. She didn’t care who heard her at this point, she just wanted him. “Thom, where are you?” The few passersby looked at her strangely before hurrying off. Funny how no one recognized who she was when she was wearing a glove to cover her marked hand. She was just a dwarf, a second-class nobody; that was all she ever would be in the Free Marches. He was the first one who had ever made her feel like more. “Thom…” her tone faltered now as a wave of loneliness washed over her.

“My lady?” a familiar voice rumbled in unexpected response. A large figure stumbled out of the shadows of a side street in front of her. It was him, though he was no longer in his armor. A loose linen shirt and cotton trousers with a pair of leather boots made him look like any other spectator in the crowd, which was probably the point. The surprise in his face softened as he studied her. “You came.”

“Idiot, of course I came.” Despite the words, there was no bite behind them. “I had to see you.”

His eyes darted around. “Hold on.” Before explaining anything, he grabbed her by the hand and dragged her with him back into the shadows and out of sight. Then, satisfied that they could get a private moment, he put his arms around her. It relieved her to find the intensity of his embrace matched her own yearning for him. “I’m sorry I didn’t stick around. It didn’t seem like a good idea after how I gave them a disappointing end to the Tourney.” He chuckled, then grimaced in pain, withdrawing his arms to nurse his side.

“You’re hurt. You should come back and let Dorian heal you.”

Thom waved dismissively. “I’d better not risk it, but that’s all right. I’m getting to be an old man. I know I took a beating, but I earned it. Might be gimping for a few days. Can’t believe I was able to hold them off at my age.”

“You played it smart, understood how real battle works. That’s why you came out on top this time without any help.”

“It didn’t hurt that since my debut, I learned how to handle a sword and shield properly.” He smiled as he leaned against the brick wall. It made her happy to see him talking about something in his past without that pained look of regret.

“Was this Grand Tourney thing a part of your plan the whole time? Part of your making amends?”

“I came here to finally visit my parents after all these years. I can assure you, I much preferred taking on those five combatants single-handedly to the looks of disappointment on their faces.” The amusement in his voice disappeared as a cloud covered his features.

She took his hands and squeezed. “It didn’t go well?”

“I don’t know who hurt more, me or them. In the end, they asked me to leave. Didn’t really give me a chance to get to the better parts of my life story. That’s when I realized the tournament was in town this year. I needed something…positive, and it seemed like fate. I thought maybe this was a way to pay it forward. Also, by that point I just really wanted to hit stuff.”

Despite the gravity of the conversation, she couldn’t help but snort in laughter. “You sound like the Bull!”

The smile returned to his face. “I do, don’t I? Well, anyhow, I found just the right sort of lad to make a deal with. You saw it, didn’t you? He was as green as they come.”

“I did. Seeing the two of you stand together was the first clue that I was seeing you out on that field. Was he less stubborn than you were at that age?”

“Much. That did make my life easier. Took commands well. Even still, I didn’t give him the chance to make the same mistake as I did.”

Malika frowned thoughtfully. “Was that what you two were discussing on the field when you held him at sword-point?”

Thom shook his head, looking down as if into his own past. “I told him that if he was not willing to send his winnings home and join Cullen and Ser Michel for proper training, I would take him down and win the competition myself. He had to swear it before I would drop my sword. It did me no good all those years ago to be handed the Tourney with only a suggestion of where to go next, so I gave him an ultimatum instead. Of course, it’s up to him whether he values an oath.”

“Are you satisfied with the outcome?”

“I am.” His answer held no hesitation. “I’ve earned my title from all those years ago on my own merit, and I’ve helped a lad get started with his career while sharing with him the pitfalls to avoid. I just pray to the Maker that he doesn’t turn out like me.” Thom shook his head with a sigh.

“You mean, you hope he doesn’t become a soldier of fortune like you did for a time. I hope he DOES turn into a man like you. I know things didn’t go the way you wanted with your parents, but Thom, when I was watching you in the arena today…” She swallowed hard. “I was proud, so damn proud of you.” Shit, were her eyes starting to water? She cleared her throat and turned away. “You were a hero in every way out there.”

There was silence for a moment as her words sank in. “I…make you proud?” His voice was thin, like it too was holding back a tumult of emotions.

“I don’t know how else to describe that feeling. Like, I wanted to stand up and scream that you were MY champion. Smart in battle, strong and fierce when pushed, gentle and protective of those who are weaker, and everything else I believed you to be when I first met you as Warden Blackwall. All of it was true in the end.” She knew she had to face him with her final words, so he’d see the conviction in her eyes. She could give him that much, and so she did. “I’m just so proud that you are mine, and I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

She could see him clench his bearded jaw as he ducked his head, breathing turning just that little bit shaky. “That means everything to me, Malika.”

“Well then,” she put her hands on her hips, “kiss me, damn it, before I cry! I’ve missed you, Thom.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before he was grabbing her under her thighs and hoisting her up so the height difference was negated and their faces were parallel. The ensuing kiss, sparked by the sincerity of the moment, was only heightened by several weeks of separation.

All too soon it was interrupted by the fanfare of trumpets and the most obnoxious voice Malika had ever heard (though that might have been due to what it was interrupting). A procession was walking down the main street next to them. “Come one, come all, for one afternoon only! See Andruril incarnate as she…”

“Hell no, I’m not one of those sad hobo elves with my head shoved up a thousand years ago! You see any tattoos on my face, arsebiscuit?”

The obnoxious voice cleared his throat. “The barefoot huntress…”

“Still too elfy.”

“The elven…”

“Look, do you want me to shoot the apple off of YOUR head or what? Or maybe that silly hat…”

By now, a crowd must have gathered, because there was the sound of general chuckling. Malika and Thom, despite their initial annoyance, were included. They of course recognized the indignant voice of Sera and had to see what she’d gotten herself into. As they peered around the corner, they saw her planted in the middle of the road and looking miffed with a bow in hand and a quiver full of arrows on her back. Coming to a halt before her was a vibrantly dressed man in a gaudy hat. Several other performers were grouped around, forming what appeared to be a troupe.

The announcer huffed in exasperation and half-heartedly held up his arms to gesture at the rogue. “Sera the Archer.”

“See? I like that. Nice and accurate. You know what you’re getting.”

“But it’s horrible for marketing,” he moaned, causing the audience to laugh once more.

“Are they supposed to be a comedic duo or what?” Malika whispered, leaning easily against Thom.

“I think she’s going to shoot something. Or someone,” he replied with a grin.

“Well, this I want to see. Thinking about it, the circus does seem as good a place as any for Sera, wouldn’t you say?”

His laughter was deep and rich and so honest that it warmed her right to the core. “I’d have thought she’d be the one to train the monkeys, but this works too.”

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

In the end, he’d had to go as quietly as he’d arrived. Afraid Sera would cause a scene if he appeared before her, he stayed just long enough to watch her hang upside-down and shoot things (including the announcer’s fancy hat put on a tall stick) before disappearing into the gathering crowd and moving on to the next town. No hello nor goodbye to anyone in the Inquisition, really. That honor was reserved for Malika and Malika alone. It was enough to sustain them both for a little while longer.

The Grand Tourney in Markham would be talked about for years, but in the end it was the little things that came about as a result that made it special. A young boy was given guidance and a secure future. Thom made good on a deed done for him years ago, one that lessened some of the regret that burdened him. Malika got to see her knight in dull, borrowed armor triumph before a packed house, whether they knew who he was or not. Varric lost his month’s wages on a misinformed bet, resulting in weeks of mooching drinks from others. And Sera? She finally got to be a circus performer even if for one afternoon. With the exception of Varric, this had been a very, very good day.


End file.
